


Burning Heart

by PrioritiesSorted



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Pre-A Game of Thrones, this is not a Rhaegar friendly fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 10:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2306135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrioritiesSorted/pseuds/PrioritiesSorted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Elia Martell has always been more than a victim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the tenth round of the GoT exchange and for some ridiculous reason I've only just got around to posting it. 
> 
> I just have a lot of feelings about Elia Martell

**Inspiring**

Oberyn worshipped his sister. Despite being less than two years her junior, there was something about Elia’s quiet determination, her grace, that made her seem so much older and wiser than he. Even when he grew taller (which took everyone by surprise when she was nine and he was nearly eight) and became broad of shoulder, his voice deepening, thick black hair beginning to grow on his chin, she always made him feel like a little brother.

Though he enjoyed his mother’s songs and his lessons with Doran, it was Elia’s stories that he craved. Many a night he would steal into her bed, despite the heat, to hear her soft voice weave worlds around them and feel the soothing motion of her delicate fingers combing through his hair. His favourite stories were the embroidered ones. Every so often Elia would emerge from her lesson and press a scrap of linen into Oberyn’s hands; the first piece had a simple illustration of a castle and the words, “Once, long ago, there was a Queen and a Knight. They were noble and beautiful, and they loved each other.”

He hadn’t understood at first, but the next week Elia had given him another scrap, and then another, and the story began to unfold. After a few moons he began to wait outside her chambers on days he thought she might bring him a new piece of the tale, so eager was he to see what the wise queen and the gallant knight would do next. On his eleventh name day Elia brought him a roll of silk, richly embroidered in vividly coloured thread, telling of how the Queen and the Knight befriended a young dragon. Oberyn had cried as the light began to fail and the flickering flame of a candle failed to do justice to the beautiful images he had already committed to memory.

It was still mounted above his bed the night before they left to deliver Elia to King’s Landing, and Elia smiled Oberyn’s favourite smile (the one that spread slowly to her eyes so he could see the happiness filling her up) as she ran her fingers over the raised patterns the thread made.

“I still have the rest,” Oberyn said, reaching into the small set of drawers at his bedside and pulling out a pile of linen scraps. “I read them when I cannot sleep.”

He handed the pile to her, and she sat on the edge of his bed to flick through them. She sighed and held out her hand, beckoning him to sit beside her, so she could rest her head on his shoulder.

“Remember this, little brother,” she told him. “The world has many wonderful things to teach you, but be careful what you learn. Very few places treat their girls as Dorne does, but our ways are the right ones.”

Elia pressed the little handful of embroidered rags into his hand, encasing his calloused hand in her tiny, delicate ones. “When you take lovers, and have daughters, remember these. And if you have sons, remember to teach them as you have been taught.”

Her dark eyes shone, and Oberyn felt a pang of loss; to miss her before she had gone was ludicrous, yet the ache in him at the thought of her going to King’s Landing, of possibly never returning to Sunspear, to her family, to him, was already beginning to press upon his chest.

“You have my word, Elia, and if I ever forget, you will be there to remind me.”

“I will, Oberyn, always.”

**Passionate**

The night Rhaenys was conceived was the only night he ever touched her with passion. From the moment they met, Rhaegar had treated her with courtesy, and she would not have minded had this been the courtesy of a prince to his princess, but she knew it was not. Each gentle brush of his hand and every soft word infuriated her. King’s Landing was stifling. Though the heat was not near as oppressive as in Dorne, she felt she could not breathe under the weight of her new gowns and the maesters’ stares and the silence surrounding her new goodfather, a silence broken only by the screams of his enemies and the crackle of lurid green flames. She needed release, and the light touches of her husband when he deigned to come to her bed did nothing to ease the tension in her muscles.

“I’m not made of glass, Rhaegar,” she snapped one evening, when he’d reached out to cradle her head as she fell back onto her pillows. He started, drawing back to sit on his heels and look down at her. Stripped of his tunic and undershirt, his long silver hair cascading over his shoulders to kiss the hard white planes of his chest, she had to admit her husband was magnificent. She wanted to dance with the dragon, not have him tiptoe around her and whisper lest his breath snap her in two.

“I know you think me weak-“

“You are sick, Elia.” His voice was deep and slow, and it was as though he spoke to a child. The weight of his deep purple eyes was pressing on her, and she lifted herself up to meet his gaze. She knew her body was thin and fragile looking, that her breasts were small and her hip bones jutting out, but she knew she could make men fear her all the same. Defiance rushed through her, and she wanted to shout so loud that the windows shattered, to show him that her power was no less than his; she had a hurricane in her lungs and they fought with it every day. Instead, her voice was low and clear, forcing him to acknowledge her as she said,

“I am not sick. I may have a sickness but that is not what I am. I am Elia Martell of Sunspear, and men were falling in love with me when you were still a bookish little schoolboy.”

She reached out to let her fingers trip lightly along his jaw, to flutter on his neck. He stared, transfixed, as though he had never seen her before as she pulled him towards her. She felt a momentary surge of power as she brought his lips close enough to kiss, letting him lean forward to feel only her breath on his lips as she whispered,

“You think you are a dragon, my prince? If that is so then I must be the sun. I could burn you alive.”

His lips were hot against hers as he surged forward, pressing her against him. Her legs felt strong wrapped around his hips, and even if she ached to her bones for days afterwards, she thought it was worth it.

**Compassionate**

Lyanna tried not to acknowledge her shaking hands as she stood outside princess Elia’s rooms. Her moment of joy as the gallant prince placed a garland of blue flowers on her head; the silence that followed had been cacophonous, and Ned had turned white as a sheet beside her. Now the princess had summoned her for supper, and it seemed that not even Ned's most fervent and politest refusal would dissuade Elia from her purpose.

_I've not even done anything wrong;_ Lyanna thought petulantly, _it isn't my fault if her husband finds me beautiful._

Gathering all her courage, she knocked on the thick door, almost as black as the charred stone surrounding it. She was taken aback when she was not greeted by a handmaiden, but by Elia herself. The princess smiled,

"Lady Lyanna! I am so glad you could join me, do make yourself comfortable."

Lyanna wasn't sure she could have made herself comfortable on the finest of featherbeds at that moment, but she gave a small smile and took a seat, folding her hands in her lap just as her septa had taught her. Elia collapsed gracefully into the chair opposite her and poured them each a glass of wine. Lyanna received hers gratefully and took a sip; it was different from the wine they served in Winterfell, fuller and spicier on her tongue.

"You like it?" Elia asked, and Lyanna nodded eagerly,

"It is very fine, Your Grace." The princess waved her free hand, golden bracelets jangling on her thin wrists, and insisted,

"Please call me Elia. I'm not supposed to be drinking, it's bad for my health apparently, but the King's Landing maesters clearly don't appreciate the benefits of a good Dornish red. Still, you must keep this our little secret."

Lyanna gaped, unsure where this conversation was leading,

"Of course Your- Elia."

"How old are you, Lyanna?" she asked suddenly.

"Sixteen on my next name day."

"And you are to be married, are you not?" Lyanna could not help but grimace slightly,

"To Robert Baratheon." Elia studied her for a moment, and Lyanna knew her answer had been too blunt as the princess asked,

"Do you love him?"

_No._

She knew she was supposed to praise his skill with a Warhammer, his liveliness, his strong build and handsome face, but something in Elia's concerned gaze wrenched the truth from her,

"My brother Ned tells me that Robert loves me. I do not know how that could be, since I have not spent much time with him, but I suppose Ned spoke of me often when they were fostered together with Jon Arryn."

She knew she ought to be grateful, that many girls were married to men twice their age who cared less for their wives than for their horses, but she could not reconcile herself to the idea of losing her freedom, of leaving her home for Storm's End and a husband who (if her brothers' frantic whispering was to be believed) already had bastards in the Vale and elsewhere.

"A husband who loves his wife is a rare enough thing in Westeros." Elia said, and Lyanna was glad she had not told her what a blessing Robert’s love supposedly was.

"My husband does not love me." Elia’s delivery was so abrupt, so direct that Lyanna did not know what to say.

"Your Grace I am sure... I cannot..." Elia silenced her with a wave again, and looked at her with sad, dark eyes,

"You need not strain yourself, my dear. He cares for me, that I know, but he does not love me as a man is meant to love his wife. Honestly I am surprised he has not done this before now."

"Done what?"

"Had his eye caught by a pretty young girl."

Lyanna looked away, unable to meet Elia's gaze, instead staring fixedly at the whorls on the wooden table, studying the way they swirled like wind cast in resin, and absolutely not remembering the delicate weight of a crown of blue roses adorning her head. A warm hand covered hers,

"I did not call you here to chastise you, Lyanna, you have done nothing wrong, and this whole affair may go no further, but I simply want you to know that whatever happens now is your choice. The prince may show you favour, but this does not mean you are obliged to do or give him anything, unless you want to."

Lyanna thought about Prince Rhaegar, with his shining silver hair and his valour on the tourney field; she thought about Robert Baratheon, who laughed too loud and drank too deeply and who loved her; she thought about the wind in her hair as she rode as hard and as fast as she could, and how it felt like flying.

"And if... if I want to?" Elia seemed to slump slightly, but she remained smiling kindly,

"Then that is your choice, and I hope it brings you joy."

"You truly do not mind?"

"Did I say that? I mind a great deal that my husband could never love me as I love him, that he would honour another woman as he has you, but since I cannot control my own destiny, I would have you control yours."

**Indignant**

"... And if you'll believe it, the maester says to him, 'what good work Master Tyrion, you have captured your Father's likeness perfectly!'"

Laughter burst from Elia's lips and Jaime was glad to see her smile. She had lost much of her joy in the past months, and it was only then that Jaime had truly begun to see her as ill. Though she had been shut up for weeks after Rhaenys's birth, and longer still after Aegon's, she had always maintained such a liveliness of spirit that it was hard to envision her as the invalid she was.

The laughter swiftly died as Prince Rhaegar swept into the room. His red and black armour gleamed: a true Targaryen prince of old.

"Elia, I have come to say goodbye."

"Have you, my love? How considerate of you. Ser Jaime was just telling me a tale of his little brother's exploits; I think Tyrion must be the terror of Casterly Rock. It is strange to think I might have seen it all first hand, in a different life. Had the Lady Joanna survived, Ser Jaime and I would have been married, and you would have wanted both a wife and a Kingsguard. How terrible." Her voice was light and teasing but the smile that stretched her lips could barely pass as an expression of joy.

The prince remained unsmiling, a hard anger flashing across his face.

“You will not provoke me Elia, I have larger matters to attend to.”

“Of course you do, husband. You have a war to fight, a fair maiden to win; do give Lyanna my love, won’t you? Since one of you at least deserves it.” Jaime cringed; he had been given no leave to go, yet this exchange was not his to hear, the coldness and the fury and the hurt the mixed in the air was not his to breathe. He tried to let their words wash over him, averting his eyes as Rhaegar leant down to kiss the top of her head.

The air vibrated as she flinched.

Rhaegar strode from the room, the crash of the door ringing in the silence he left behind. Elia took a deep, calming breath, blinking the tears back from her eyes as she said,

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to drag you into it but I just… I’m sorry.”

Jaime did not know how to reply; he wanted to tell her he understood, that he did not blame her for her anger, but to do so would be to speak against his prince, the man he swore to protect. In the back of his mind he could hear Queen Rhaella screaming, and he wondered again how it was that the Kingsguard could so easily brush off the suffering of their queen, of their princess. He nodded, a faint smile on his face that he hoped was comforting.

“Oberyn threatened to kill him at least six times in his last letter. I told him it wouldn’t be necessary.” Elia continued blithely, and Jaime stammered to find an answer, wondering if she knew the discomfort she was causing him.

“Your brother loves you very much, Your Grace.” He said eventually, almost afraid that at any moment his brothers would burst into the room and strip his cloak from him for such a sentiment. _A ridiculous thought: my brothers followed Rhaegar into the war. I am alone._

“If your sister was in my place, what would you do?” Her voice was soft, pleading, and it was then that Jaime understood. _She needs someone on her side._ All the same, he wished it had not been him she chose as her confidante.

“I cannot consider it, Your Grace.” _Were my sister his princess, Rhaegar would never have looked at Lyanna Stark. And if he did, killing him would be a mercy._

The corners of Elia’s mouth twitched, and Jaime wished she would stop talking, that she would allow him to leave, but she was not done. Anger flashed in her eyes and it seemed she took special care to keep her voice measured as she said,

“It has always baffled me that Northern men have mothers and sisters just as Dornish men do, and yet they treat their wives and their lovers and even their daughters like they are… dispensable. I might be a princess but here I am, abandoned in the midst of a war so my husband can fight for his right to another woman’s body. I pray that he loves her, but as hard as I try I cannot dispel the thought that she is only a means to an end; he does not care about her, only what she can give him. ‘The dragon must have three heads’, he told me, as if I would beg his forgiveness for being so unfeeling, for failing to understand his higher purpose.” She spat the words out as her voice began to tremble and break, “The songs will praise him for it I am sure, but what will they say of me? Nothing. They will forget me just as he has, though I have just as much right to remembrance.”

Then it was as if a dam had broken; tears that had been threatening for so long to spill cascading down her cheeks as she gasped for breath. Her knees gave out beneath her and Jaime rushed to catch her as she fell. Her body was light as a feather in his arms, but her sadness weighed on his heart like a stone.

“I have been sickly all my life,” she breathed, “but it is him who has killed me.”

**Brave**

Elia tried not to shake as she sat in the dark of the tower, the flickering torch light casting shadows on the walls that she was certain would reach out to strangle her. The shadows had not seemed so threatening when Ser Jaime had been there, making them into the shapes of animals to distract Rhaenys from her sniffling. When terrified looking squire arrived to call him to the Throne Room, Jaime had promised to return soon.

Mercifully, Aegon was asleep in her arms, apparently unaware of the chaos unfolding around him. Rhaenys was sniffing softly, curled up against her mother’s side, and trying so hard to be brave. She had cried at first, when Ser Jaime had left them alone in the dark, but Elia had stroked her hair and asked her to be strong and brave like her father, and hearing Rhaenys’s reluctant little sniffles and long shuddering breaths, Elia thought her daughter was stronger and braver than Rhaegar had ever been.

“Mama?” Rhaenys whispered, “would you tell me a story to help me be brave?”

“Of course my darling.” Elia replied, tucking her daughter tighter against her body. The thoughts chasing each other around her mind were relentlessly dark, and she wondered what sort of horrors her mind could weave from them. Elia did not need them now; she needed sunlight, needed laughter and happiness and comfort. She began her tale:

“Once, long ago, there was a Queen and a Knight. They were noble and beautiful, and they loved each other.”


End file.
